sharp shooter. ❜

“Oh thanks–” Much like her dripping sarcasm, Lo’s eyes rolled swiftly. She was glad her chances of survival won out over strenuous paperwork. Not that, Lo could entirely blame her. She wouldn’t want the extra labor where it wasn’t totally necessary or warranted. “I’ve been —” Well, if that wasn’t a loaded question. How could one possibly sum up or compartmentalize their life and emotions in sixty seconds or less? Could it even be done? 

Not pressed to try, Lo didn’t even bother as she smoothed out the material of her dress over her thighs. Now that she was standing somewhat straight, she figured she oughta look presentable. Despite the secrecy of masks, she still felt very exposed which Ben warned her was probably dangerous. Considering, she was supposed to be dead. There was a bounty on her head, apparently. Lo could always tell Samantha that but she opted out, because she didn’t want to worry her friend or insert herself as the key topic of conversation. “For lack of a better word, that’s it. I’ve been better.” Samantha knew all about Lo’s recent stints. In fact, she was the only person Lo had kept in contact with when she left for rehab. Well, her and Sofia. “How’s work. Got any new stories for me? It’ll distract me from the mess that is my life and remind me I need to come by and visit you again.” While, many others would’ve considered Samantha’s job too morbid and inappropriate to talk about, Lo loved it. Of course, it was sad for the people who wound up under her microscope but, Lo always got a ton of killer stories out of it. No pun-intended. “I still have nightmares about the guy with the missing feet. It takes foot fetishes to a whole new level.”

“I mean, we could match if you’d like,” Sam let her hand hover over the dimpled scar on her midsection — a gunshot, caught in the cross hairs, rendered by her own sibling’s hand. Lo was the next closest thing. “I’d be more inclined to go for something like a piercing or a tattoo, but that’s just me. She gave a flippant shrug with her own sarcastic edge, but a smile didn’t lurk too far below the surface. Samantha would never knowingly harm those that had won her over and her contempt & vitriol was only aimed at those that truly earned it. 

It could be hard to get a rise out of Samantha, or even a general reaction. Some took it as a challenge and that just sent her further into aloof iciness. Emotions had been weaponized in her upbringing and she had vowed never to let someone control in that way once more. She understood the need to be guarded, as there were copious layers of scar tissue underneath a poised surface someone would have to hack through to get to a softer center, and it was questionable if that still existed. When anyone would try to pry, it just sent her retreating and withdrawing further. “They’ve been better, but they’ve also been worse,” Samantha spoke, giving a quick pat on Lo’s shoulder. She didn’t mean to conjure up anything negative, but it was an attempt to be supportive. She might not be the best wordsmith but she’d certainly be there if her chosen few ever called upon her. “Work is the same old, same old, yet different each day. Never enough coffee.” Her days started when another’s ended. It hadn’t always been her intended profession as she had aimed to be a neurosurgeon before life had other ideas. Her bedside manner fit much more nicely with the dead. Her being lent itself to the solemn and reverential aspects. Though they were voiceless, the dead spoke volumes. “A more recent one -- the poor guy was emasculated,” she dropped her voice, “and found with it in his mouth.” Samantha usually offered a bit more tact. “On a lighter note, sometimes the natural gasses are still built up and as it tries to escape, the body will groan. That will never not be creepy, but also, same — to the groaning, anyway.” It was hard to count that as a lighter note but Samantha couldn’t be faulted for trying. “I was going to go try to find somewhere to rinse this out, wanna come?”

Sam’s presence and the thin, insubstantial air of the night calmed something ever-stirring within him. She was a familiar thing in a place where familiar things were few and far between, and it served him almost like an anchor. Granted, he’d grown familiar with other things in Houston over the course of the last two years, but this was different. She was an artefact from before, and Nate always felt a bit more present in those long stretches of silence that they sometimes shared. It’s not that he wanted to go back, to some other point in his life, it was that he wondered if he was supposed to miss it? To mourn it? 

If there was something about her that he envied - and that wasn’t related to their profession - it was the calmness with which she slipped into her poise, into carefully designed obscurity. Maybe obscurity wasn’t the right word, he wondered. Maybe it was more of an ambiguity thing, a certain inexactness he couldn’t quite reach. He liked when that slipped sometimes, not out of malice - but because it felt easier to slip out of his own mask and allow himself to ease the tensions that usually ruled his posture and his countenance and his aloofness. “You’ve got a point there. At least you’re not obnoxious about it.”, he never played well with obnoxiousness, maybe that’s why he first started preferring her company back in med school. “Yes, I’ve always wondered about that… Why you stuck with me at all. I think others would wonder as well, we’re such different animals.”, the crease between his brows deepened, only half-serious, because he did wonder, but the truth was of no consequence. It didn’t change anything. He let out a chuckle, even if there was truth to her words, he couldn’t really fault her for them, they weren’t that different in this regard, “How very utilitarian of you Ashby.” His eyes slipped back to the house then, the glitter and glitz of the moving bodies that could be seen half-hidden behind the windows. “No, I think we all are. Maybe that’s why nothing’s happening yet.”, his eyes narrowed to slits, observing the ornate play with contempt of a man who wasn’t a fan of these sorts of saccharine games, “I don’t like it though. It feels dishonest. Which is fair enough, considering the players - but…” He never finished his thought, because he didn’t really know what were the words that were supposed to follow. He wasn’t designed for this game of pretence that played out inside, it left him out of his element and decidedly on edge. He offered the pack of cigarettes to Sam, taking out the old zippo and watching the flame quiver in the faint breeze. “I don’t know how I feel about it. I think it feels like I’m trespassing. And like I’m waiting for the first blood to be spilt.”, he ran his teeth over his lower lip and turned back around once again, “You always were better at this sort of thing, I don’t think I’ve got the patience or the equanimity for it.”

“The only thing obnoxious about me are my jokes.” They were a rarity, only offered up in between genuine smiles and Samantha deciding someone was worthy. Her current company might have been blessed cursed with the most abundance. She would lob them up in the air while comfortable enough with someone that kept her grounded. “It’s not like you’ve saved my life or anything. Who would do such a heinous thing?” Samantha gave a playful elbow to his ribs. It was not something she touched on lightly, still warring with the outcome even after the passing of time. Life should not be a conflicting thing, but perhaps it was the thing above all else that could claim it. There were nuances, an infinite amount of facets. Some facets were smoothed and polished to gleam, yet others jutted out at odd angles. Samantha’s life was jigsawed together with sharper edges, but she no longer wore herself down or cut pieces of herself off to fit a certain mold or standard. She had never been a pristine beauty, but there was honesty to be found in each hairline fracture she tried to keep imperceptible. Life, at its very essence, was a conflicting thing. There were buoyant moments when she dropped her act in safe company. They didn’t outweigh the weight of living nor the weight of her past. There were days Samantha wished she hadn’t woken up with tubes down her throat at all, but life was something she was sure some of the corpses in the autopsy suite wished for just one more shred of. There had been anger, resentment even, though she had tried not to displace it upon Nate. She would have made the same choices. It had been far too tempting to leave, to not stick by him, yet over the years he had also chosen to stick by her. That fact had not been lost on Samantha. It had been a terrifying thing to have someone privy to the knowledge of so much of her trauma. It still was. She couldn’t deny that fact, but it was a welcomed relief to have someone near enough to her. They could step out of whatever roles they felt the need to play to just be. To just share a moment of kindred silence. Samantha knew she could never truly step out from the heaviness of it all entirely. She would feel oddly unbalanced. Atlas could shoulder the burden when they both shed it for a moment of clarity, and she would be there should Nate ever need it.

It was her turn to let out a laugh. “Have I ever concerned myself with what others think?” She tossed her head back towards what she could see of the party. “Perhaps there was a truce called for an evening, and one evening only. However, this isn’t the end of a chapter. The ledgers won’t be wiped clean like they want us to think, and I both pity and am envious of anyone naive enough to think so.” Samantha plucked a cigarette and brought it to her lips when the tip glowed red in the dark. “I don’t like to be adrift in a sea of the dreadfully dull, but larger parties are much more intimate and easier to sneak off and do as you please. It’s harder to stand in a corner and snark when all eyes are on you and everyone else’s whereabouts at smaller affairs. It’s so much easier to leave.” 

Killian was the cause for many crises, but this particular one, he had nothing to do with. However, he did see the whole thing unravel. In fact, he probably could have stopped it from happening, but where was the fun in that?

“Oh me?” Killian half-chuckled while he stuffed his face full of cheese cubes. They were pepper jack flavored, and tasted like heaven. Or, at least the way someone like him would imagine heaven to taste. Killian had reservations for the lowest circle of hell. “I don’t want anything. I mean, I was just enjoying the show. It was so funny, you should have seen it from over here, as, like, a spectator.” A slow grin started across his lips as he geared up to give her his version of the story, “The waiter took a step back, stepped on Cinderella’s gown, and then caught an elbow right in the chin. My reflexes kicked in super-fast, I was about to grab the tray of champagne, right? But then thought –wait? What are you doing? This will be hilarious. So I let it happen, and I was right…it was great.”

Samantha lifted her gaze from the figure and tossed a look over her shoulder.  “Cinderella has a nice right hook.” She had witnessed many such scenes in her upbringing, but she rarely tried to involve herself in such affairs. Discretion had been the name of the game in her wild youth, and that had continued into adulthood. Clandestine trysts and forbidden intimacies had given way to withdrawing and letting herself become involved in others’ affairs.  She was a creature crafted of rage and passion, and a need to be in control of herself. She was perceptive yet distant, but flickers of extreme emotion rarely served her well. She had a habit of detaching altogether into neutral apathy and called upon that facade once more as she grabbed a wad of napkins. 

He’d recognised her by the sounds that accompanied her approach long before she even spoke. The air out here was thin and cold and quiet - any sound that disturbed it was a distinct call for his attention. And Samantha had always had a way of walking that was definitely a demand for attention - the brisk sound of heels against the ground - something impressive about it. But Sam had a way of adding that impressive element to things that must have stemmed from her past, was a byproduct of her upbringing. So it came hardly as surprise when he was met with the sight of her approaching, all amused gleam, and something idle about her. The easy indifference of someone accustomed to the glitz and glamour of this place, even if she did look a little out of place considering the garish nature of the setting.

“No, it can’t - but that doesn’t mean they’ll stop trying.”, once slight crease now deepened between his brows, as his gaze floated towards the illuminated back of the house, “And failing.” Not that it was of any consequence to him - he actually had no idea why he was commenting on it in the first place. Maybe because the blinding gold and glitter of every damn surface in this place was slowly but steadily giving him a headache. “Wow, that hurts. Ah, Ashby, what would I do without you? Always keeping my ego in check ever so diligently.”, he drew the cigarette to his lips with languid ease of someone who’d gone through a few of them already, amusement crossing his features, “Besides, I thought you had that elusive good taste? I’m very aesthetic, you know; you can barely see me in the dark.” He reached his hand out towards her, a silent request for the flask, even as his eyes never left the simmering surface of the pool, “I wonder what it’ll look like if someone decides to paint it all red - because that is a ticking time bomb in there.”, then, as if in afterthought, “You want a cigarette?”

There had always be an innate need for control. It showed itself in even the smallest of gestures, unnoticed nuances to a carefully guarded whole. She walked with an act of bravado when she wanted. Samantha could be deviously charming when she wanted. She called attention when she sought it out, but had learned to fade into the background ⁠— a most favored magic trick. She could make herself scarce. Be it metaphorically, becoming faultless in a scenario, or disappearing altogether. Erasure and minimization were key to her vanishing act. Samantha hid parts of herself so well that she was sure they would never be found and thus rendering an open void. There were internal wounds she had yet to cauterize yet she would never let someone else close enough to do so. 

The need to prove something was not a stranger to Samantha, and it was not an acquaintance she would ever have the pleasure of shedding that familiarity. Her eyes traveled over the backside of the state as she took a long pull from the flask, wondering what exactly they had been trying to prove with certain choices. “And failing,” Samantha echoed with a pointed nod of her head. “Hey, somebody has to do so. It might as well be me.” She let herself drape comfortably, deciding she was content enough in his company to relax. To give up the effort of maintaining aloof poise. A rarity. “I have taste where it matters,” Samantha countered. “I’ve stuck with you this long. At this point you know too much about me not to be kept close.” She had offered the remark flippantly, though the hidden depth of it resulted in one more tip of the flask before she surrendered it. “Is it bad that I’m just waiting for something — anything ⁠— to happen?” Perhaps it was her own cynicism, or perhaps it was the simple reality of the cast of characters partaking in this drama, but she was waiting for things to shift into the next act. Perhaps it would only come when the curtain fell as the evening came to an end. “That’d be great, actually.” Samantha let her gaze float back over the garden. “Believe it or not, I always did prefer larger parties of this kind of thing.”

Ever since Lo had parted ways with her brother at the start of the night, she’d been on a high-tail chase to seek out the identity of her cloaked, ex boyfriend. Who was apparently there and hidden somewhere amongst the sea of masks. She just didn’t know where to start looking. Which, was unfortunate for her because the longer her search, the more pissed off she got. It was like a real live action sequence of where’s waldo? And she hated waldo.

Although, had it not been for her persistence or fate, or even the sudden clumsiness of another party goer – Lo might’ve missed out on the opportunity to pester an old friend instead. Who, she was not only surprised but borderline jumping out of her skin (and dress) to see. There was a time when Lo and Sam used to be closer. Like, practically sisters. They shared the same roof once. Yet, since she’s been back – Lo hasn’t gotten a chance to make her rounds to everybody. Including Sam. Though, she wanted to.

“Whoa, hey! Relax, it’s just me.” After prying the mask off her face with one hand, Lo smiled up at Sam and waved her hands in surrender with the other. Then, pilfered a new glass of champagne off a passing tray to extend to her friend as a silent, peace offering. “And luckily for you, I come bearing gifts. So long as you don’t shoot the messenger.” It’s been give or take 11 months since the two last saw each other in person but, Lo kept in touch with Sam via text messages. Sam was probably one of the only ones who knew about Lo’s escape plan to rehab before it actually happened.

Curiosity simply couldn’t be the reason she was here, could it? One could never entirely be certain when or where Samantha Ashby would make an appearance, but she had little conflict with the slim number of people that might concern themselves with her whereabouts. She had decided to let herself be coaxed out for the evening. Perhaps it was the curiosity of what the night had to offer, or the novelty of something that lent itself to masked mischief. She was no stranger to parties such as this, though she did not mind playing the role of stranger. Samantha made herself known when it was required. She didn’t shy away from being noticed and was content enough to watch from the sidelines. She had a perceptive eye and a curious mind, but letting others seek her out as she blended into the background had served her best since arriving to Houston. She preferred to let the city’s bigger players ask (or rather, tell her in some cases) for the extent of her involvement. 

Samantha was aware she walked a fine line but was happy to be unattached and welcomed the unaffiliated company of others. It was hard to get close to Samantha. Be it the safeguards she put in place to protect the impeccable work of hiding things more flawed and blemished, or the layers of ice she tried to shroud her fiery heart in, it was a remarkable feat to win her over. Perhaps none had done so as strongly as Lorelei.

“Lo!” A flicker of genuine happiness engulfed the blonde. She made a move to offer a one-armed hug but decided against another sticky casualty and took the offered glass instead. “I wouldn’t shoot you. It’s simply not worth the paperwork,” she added a wink in jest. “How have you been?”

An estate filled with Houston’s finest was the plan according to El Santo. Matias, on the other hand, hated big crowds as he wasn’t able to control situations around him - yes, he was a bit of a control freak. The night so far seemed to be going smoothly. There had been a few elbows jabbed into his arm, back and rib due to the overcrowdedness. While he would have gotten his petty revenge any other time, Matias kept his anger in check for the sake of the goal for the night. 

Watching as yet another spilling incident happened, the man noticed who was the victim this time and approached her, hoping to lend a hand. However, at her question and attitude with it, Matias’s nostrils flared as he rose his mask. “I’ll allow that tone seeing as you probably didn’t realize who it was,” Matias spoke as he walked closer to Samantha. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to help you with your dilemma.” Looking down at her dress, Matias knew there really wasn’t a way of fixing it, however, Matias knew the owner of the Estate and knew there were dresses of equal beauty in a closet somewhere which would pleasantly fit the blonde.

Perhaps it was her own inherent cynicism, but Samantha had been waiting for the evening to take a turn. It had blurred with many others of its kind ⁠— an opportunity to see and be seen, to slip just out of reach when the arms that held her to the dance floor gripped just a bit too tightly, and to wear a facade of merriment. Samantha appreciated the novelty of a masquerade and the air of mysterious drama it gifted to the evening, but she had an inkling a ruined dress might not be the only casualty of the soiree. It was not her place to ask, yet simply to discover in the morgue at a later date. Or not.

Samantha halted and adopted a slightly more rigid posture when a familiar voice cut through her malice with icy precision. An echo of remorse flickered over her readable features. The words froze her where she stood and reminded her exactly of where that was. She was not in a position of power, but simply one of convenience. She had no intention to involve herself in the middle of things but was content to skirt around the fringes with a vantage point just inclusive enough to keep things interesting. Samantha owed no particular allegiance. She owed no loyalty aside from whatever might be asked of her. “I appreciate your kindness, on both accounts.” The less said, the less she would come to regret. Samantha would follow into further seclusion when the motion was made to follow.

The extravagance of the night did little to peak Rose’s curiosity. Every crystal glass that was handed over was more expensive than she could imagine. This money could be filtered back into Houston, help the struggling population of downtown, but here it was being used for bullshit facades. Her mother had left her with little. Everything she had belonged to the Lycans, and after her death only what money she’d made outside of that gang, had been trickled into the Ortega family’s bank account. She lived now on the generosity of those members, and the thought brought a sour taste to her mouth. 

Her head peaked up at the sound of glass shattering, and she looked over to see one of the city’s medical examiner’s in the center of the chaos. Ashby. The name came to her quickly. She made a habit of bothering the Houston medical facilities for old records on Danielle Ortega. 

She followed the doctor as she swept off to a more secluded area and offered her a handful of napkins when she turned. “No, just thought you might need these,” she said. “Looked like a mess back there.”

The promise of the evening was so saccharine, yet it left a bad taste in Samantha’s mouth. The darker side of things would not be undone with a mere flick of the wrist. A fresh start wouldn’t happen just by claiming it. The streets would still run red, things would still shift in the shadows. She would still carve impeccable Y-shaped slits into the bodies on the morgue’s table with surgical precision. The dead would still offer some of the city’s untold secrets — some of which she would expose to the light while others would remain stitched to the darkness. The mayhem would continue, but the city would revel in distraction and naivety for a little while longer. 

Her uncouth words were better reserved for the perpetrator of the spill and Samantha bit back a venomous tongue. “Sorry,” she offered halfheartedly as she intercepted the napkins. “Thank you,” the blonde offered more genuinely after a beat. She looked up while dabbing at the damp silk, “I hope your evening is off to a better start than this.”

Clarke had been staring down at her phone, a small group chat with a few friends who were all planning to meet up later that evening taking much higher priority. The sound of glass crashing against the floor was what quickly yanked Clarke’s attention from her phone to the scene playing out in front of her, one drunken attendee who had taken one step in the wrong direction and now another attendee appeared to be suffering the aftermath. Frankly, for a split second, Clarke found herself slightly envious of the fellow blonde: what a perfect fucking excuse to leave. As the woman hustled off, Clarke sighed and slowly made her way over towards where the other woman had gone to clean up.

The woman’s initial reaction drew and eye roll from Clarke, understanding why the woman was a bit perturbed, but also served as a reminder why trying to be nice was something Clarke rarely, if ever, did outside of her job.

“Well, I was going to ask if you needed help cleaning off, but if you’re going to talk to me like that, I’m happy to leave you here alone and let you figure it out for yourself.”

Calling it a night seemed more and more appealing. She had made an appearance, she had been a part of the beginning stages of causing a scene, and the best plan of action had been to retreat from more watchful eyes. Haughtiness rarely served her well as an initial reaction, but Samantha simply no longer cared if someone pricked themselves upon her barbs. Though sharp, she usually carried herself with apathetic neutrality and presently caught herself slipping back into the role that served her best. There was a time and a place for general disregard and a display of caginess was simply not needed. 

“Right. Apologies,” Samantha offered with a frustrated sigh of her own, not particularly aimed at her present company. “You wouldn’t happen to know where the closest bathroom is, would you?” She took a second to look over the other and gave her best semblance of an apologetic smile. “You caught me far from my finest moment.” There was a vague familiarity to the other blonde though it took her a second to place it. “You’re a detective, right? I’m surprised we haven’t crossed paths on a case yet.” 

Location:  Riveria Estate, the backyard Status: Open @gowstarters​

The backyard was a sprawling, shameless thing, illuminated by the warm, golden light of antique lamp posts - original, he guessed, plucked from some old city core, the kind big money could buy. And its purpose? A conversation piece. The whole damn house was a conversation piece, built with the intent to impress. Nate was of the opinion that it was unintentionally tacky, and intentionally impressive in its tackiness. There were summer sofas and lounge chairs lining the shimmering pool, but Nate found himself sitting on a backrest of a marble bench, the stone cold beneath him and absolutely refusing to warm up. He’d been looking out towards the gardens, all symmetry and carefully plucked greenness, dark in the night - it was the only thing he genuinely enjoyed looking at in this place. 

It was quiet out here, the music and the clamour of the gala only a distant, muffled noise so that the steps of the person approaching hardly went unnoticed, “The house is stunningly ugly, but the view is… something, I’ll have to give the Mayor that at least.”, he brought the cigarette to his lips, drew a smoke, his eyes still trained on the city that could be seen sprawling in the distance, “There’s alcohol in there, if you want, none of that champagne shit they’re serving inside.” He gestured vaguely, to the silvery flask that stood beside him on the bench, “It’s not spiked, don’t worry. Though I suppose that is something someone who spiked it would say.” 

The long hallway stretched out before Samantha, but they all tunneled into a single melding of similar ones she had walked before. How many oriental rugs had she traversed across in a lifetime? How many times has a quiver coursed up her spine as heels echoed across vast, marble expanses? The debutante days had been buried and put to rest, yet the ghost of those memories never existed in the realm of Houston. It was mere hours, yet worlds away from Dallas. These parties blurred beneath an apathetic haze despite the change of scenery. Curious hues glossed over latched doors, though Samantha gave a wandering thought as she maneuvered forward. Fond memories of clandestine debauchery had been housed behind such doors in times that had witnessed a wilder Samantha. A kinder Samantha. 

She had gravitated away from the throngs of empty pleasantries and let the emptiness of the evening air fill her. Samantha took a minute to compose herself, though she couldn’t help shooting an amused gleam when her eyes connected with another pair. “Money can’t buy taste,” the blonde offered idly with the shake of her head as she stepped closer. Samantha draped herself languidly across the seat of the bench — a mocking, grandiose act that echoed her sentiments of the evening. Samantha perked up and pulled the flask from its resting place. “You’re amazing,” she unscrewed the cap and shot a look up at Nate. “You’re alright too, I guess.” 

Apathy hovered thickly in the air, shrouding the gala in a claustrophobic embrace. Time was tethered to a choke chain of stagnation, fighting to march onward toward a slowly fizzling decrescendo. The real festivities had yet to begin – when the pretty people peel themselves from the watchful eyes of acquaintances and business partners and evaporate into the night. Samantha knew it wasn’t feasible yet, but she drifted her way through the party.

There was a novelty to the anonymity offered this particular evening. Her surname had been noted and something she had struggled to get out from underneath. Her name, her work, was often the final chapter of someone’s life. Trauma, memories — a soul deduced to an autopsy report. Samantha wove her way through the sea of masked figures, curious hues flicking over anything that might of interest.

A sharp peel of laughter rang out and anchored her thoughts to the present, though not enough to totally sidestep a disaster. A wayward elbow of another clandestine figure connected with a tray of sparkling bubbles. Samantha was soon awash in a sea of alcohol and shattered shards of glass at her feet. “Watch it,” she snapped and moved to inspect the layers of champagne soaked silk. The crowd thinned but a pair of eyes upon her retreating form didn’t go unnoticed. Once secluded, she wheeled around to face the other. “Can I help you??”

Samantha Ashby ; deadly liaisons. Masquerade ball at the Riveria Estate

Status: Open to all

Location: roof of the Half Moon Bar

@gowstarters​

Rose perched herself on the edge of the roof, swinging her legs over and letting them dangle as she looked out over the city. Houston was her home. She’d never been further than a three hour drive away from it’s limits. Some days she hated it so much she’d like to burn it all down. And then during other moments, like now, she found it savagely beautiful. The night wasn’t going well with the alpha nowhere to be seen and the more founded members taking up all the oxygen in the room. She’d come up here for a breath, and a cigarette, and maybe a little peace. 

But as she heard the roof door opening she sighed, knowing the later of those wishes would go unfulfilled. Without turning around she took another drag from her cigarette and said, “If your interesting company and you won’t hassle me about smoking at my age then you can stay.”

The seconds ticked by on her wrist and a thin lined pressed against her lips. Samantha let her wrist fall idly to the side and settle upon the chilled, old fashioned glass resting upon the table. She lifted it against pursed lips as her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for the face that had coaxed her out for the evening. She was not a fixture in such spaces yet did not appear entirely out of place. To the unknowing, she was an aloof beauty. To others, she was the medical examiner aiming to hide your secrets and expose other things best left in the dark.

Samantha emptied the glass in a smooth swig and pushed away from the table. She gave one last flick of her gaze over the crowd before deciding to navigate upwards. There was always a hint of clarity found on rooftops – be it a clandestine escapade or hushed dealings. She noted another and ebbed towards a separate corner though stopped when the other called out. “That’s all relative. Do what you want,” she gave a small shrug before extracting her own box of vices. The lighter clicked. Nothing. Again. A spark and then nothing. “Fuck,” Sam let out an exasperated sigh, “got a light??”

Character: Samantha Ashby Faceclaim: Blake Lively Age/Pronouns: 32, She/Her Hometown/District: Dallas -> Upper Springs

––– perhaps cherries look violent in the sunlight ; vanity.❜

––– sorry about the blood in your mouth - i wish it was mine ; muse.❜

––– a twinge - a spark - a chord that makes the room turn red ; audio.❜

––– she burns like rum on a fire ; words.❜

––– spreading you open is the only way of knowing you ; aes.❜

––– a grave cannot be undug ; graphics.❜